


100 Writing Prompts Challenge

by sapphire2309



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin. I'll be filling prompts with random White Collar fluff. Probably in order, but I don't know yet. It will probably all be shit. I <i>do not care</i>. I'm gonna write.</p><p>This particular challenge is by Sunshockk on deviantart (see image below for list of prompts).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dance

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
> 
>  

"Dance with me?" Sara asked Neal. The music in the bar was upbeat and the dance floor was packed with swaying people. They'd be just two more people in a crowd, and that sounded particularly pleasant at the moment. 

"You're quite drunk," Neal said gently. "I don't think it's the best idea-"

"Neal. Come on." She stood up and walked away from the bar and towards the floor, not entirely certain that he'd follow her. But she shouldn't have worried, because when she turned around, he was right there. 

He was probably just indulging her, but that didn't matter. She had a dance partner.

She took his hand and pulled him in. They swayed along with the music, arms wrapped around each other, not doing anything too complicated, just... being together. But Sara wasn't comfortable. She knew that sooner or later, Neal was going to start asking questions that she didn't particularly want to answer. Preferably, not ever.

She hid her face in his neck and closed her eyes and tried to get her mind to follow suit. She wanted this peaceful moment. Needed it. 

She needed a lifetime of peaceful moments, but she wasn't going to get it. Not if Neal stuck around. (Not if she continued in her present line of work, but that was far more peaceful than Neal, so it _didn't count._ )

"What's on your mind?" he murmured, taking a far gentler route than the interrogation that she'd expected. 

"I hate you."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I _care_."

Neal let out a little laugh. "That doesn't make sense."

" _Nothing_ makes sense." She pulled away so she could look him in the eye. "That day, in that hospital waiting room, I felt like a wife. Don't look at me like that, I'm not proposing. I felt helpless and angry and worried and two seconds from collapsing and none of that made sense. Because we're not _that_ to each other. I'm not supposed to _feel_ like that." Sara drew a shaky breath. 

Neal offered her his handkerchief.

"I'm not going to cry," she said, breathing very carefully, trying desperately to blink away the tears in her eyes. "There's nothing to cry about. Why would I - oh, _hell_." She snatched the handkerchief and tugged him closer and wiped her tears on his fancy jacket instead. 

"I'm okay," Neal whispered in her ear.

"Today. But tomorrow, you'll take another stupid, brilliant risk and solve another case and possibly almost _die_ and I'll be the wife in the waiting room. That is _not_ an excuse for you to propose, don't you dare."

"I wouldn't dare, Ms. Ellis," he said with a slightly shaky voice.

"Are you crying?" She pulled away to see his face.

"Almost," he said. 

"Do you want your handkerchief back?" 

Neal went down on one knee. The crowd around them stopped swaying and started staring at them.

"I thought I just told you not to propose."

"And I'm not proposing."

"Then?"

"Sara Ellis, would you do me the honour of being my girlfriend, my partner, my _that_?

Sara pretended to consider for a moment, and probably failed because of the too-wide smile on her face. "You have to cook for me."

"Done."

"Okay then. I'll be your that."

Neal smiled and stood up. "See? We are that," he said softly, so that only she'd hear.

"Shut up and dance," she said, kissing him gently.

"Okay." And they held each other tight, and swayed on, oblivious to the eyes on their backs, and Sara finally felt comfortable.


	2. Treat

"Don't you dare." At Neal's cheeky grin, Sara repeated, more clearly, "Don't. You. Dare."

"Who's the wife in the waiting room now?"

Sara tossed her pillow at him.

"That actually hurt," he deadpanned.

"Give it back, I need it."

Neal picked it up and handed it to her.

"Seriously?"

"You really want to fight for it?"

"No."

He helped her place the pillow under her head. It was as scratchy and uncomfortable as anything in a hospital, but she let her head sink into the pillow with a relieved sigh. 

"If I'd known that that would be enough, I wouldn't have bothered with a treat."

"You brought me food? Please tell me you brought me food."

Neal held up a paper bag. 

"Yes!" 

"Sandwiches. There's a nice little bistro down the road from here. I sampled them, they're good."

He unwrapped one, handed it to her, and smiled when she immediately took a large bite. "I've been worried about you, you know. You skipped dinner two days in a row."

"I wasn't hungry. And I'm making up for it now."

"Yeah." He sat at the edge of the bed and watched Sara make her way through the sandwich. Appendicitis may be routine, but the waiting room could make anything feel like intensive heart surgery, and he'd been in a state of complete panic till the doctors told him she was okay. _Too serious._ "The timing is pretty fantastic though. You freak out about a concussion, and three days later, you're in the hospital, having _surgery_."

Sara shook her head ruefully. "Even my own appendix is plotting against me. Sandwich, please."

Neal handed her another. 

Halfway through the second sandwich, Sara turned and looked at Neal. "You okay?"

Neal reacted with an 'are you serious' look. "It's me."

"Which is why I'm asking." 

Neal looked at her suspiciously.

Sara put her sandwich down and gestured to the small space on her twin sized bed. "Come here."

"Are you serious?"

"Come on. My treat," she joked.

"Because hospital sheets are a treat."

"Hey, this is all I have to work with."

Neal complied reluctantly. 

She hugged him tight and held on till she could hear his heartbeat. "I'm alive. I made it. I'm here."

"I was scared. For a while."

"I know. It's okay to be scared. Believe me."

"Being the wife in the waiting room is... pretty terrifying."

"Yeah. We'll make it, though. We'll die when we're both more than a hundred years old, curled up in bed together."

"I'd like that."


End file.
